It is surprisingly lightweight to the touch, an insubstantial thing perhaps the size and weight of a six-sided die. The passing years have eaten away at it, leaving only a porous remnant. But it will have to do.

As you place it into a pocket, a whisper of cold air trails down your neck, goosebumps rising in its wake. A rush of wind from the lavatory above sounds eerily similar to a chorus of spectral voices. You rise to your feet; you must waste no further time in the catacombs.


A Brittle Tome